


The Storm Warning

by Teawithmagician



Series: Angel and Storm [3]
Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Disturbing Themes, Drama, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, F/M, Family Issues, Het, Kink, Love/Hate, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Post-X-Men: Apocalypse (2016), School, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-10-04
Packaged: 2018-07-21 22:36:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7407883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teawithmagician/pseuds/Teawithmagician
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Xavier convinced Warren to meet up with his father, and Angel's relative inner peace went to hell in the waste-basket. Ororo was the first to suffer from this mood change, and she was not going to go quietly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Xavier was persuading Warren to meet up with his father for weeks. Warren jibbed, but in the end, his father claimed he was arriving – everyone knew about it that very day. Did Xavier use his mind trick to make Warren agree? Ororo didn't know. Xavier wasn't a complete asshole, but still, it seemed that professor considered himself a bit of a prophet. If Xavier decided Warren must talk to his father, he would make Warren do it one way or another. 

Ororo hoped for another way. Fortunately, Warren behaved in a common way, not like a brainwashed zombie, when he told Ororo while having breakfast what he agreed to Xavier's offer. It was noisily in the dining hall, smelling with cheese toasts and spilled coffee with wet napkins. Ororo and Warren sat at the distant table in the corner. Ororo habitually chose a place where all the canteen, though it was hard to call it so, all in mahogany steering, was at a sight, and to see Waren and Ororo, the rest of the pupils had to turn their heads.

In the Cairo teahouse everyone would turn their heads just to see Angel till choking on the hookah. At the school, it was enough weirdos around, so nobody stared at them at all while they gathered their breakfast. Ororo took pancakes with jam, and Warren chose eggs, bacon, baked mushrooms, and sausages. From the time they started dating each other, Warren discovered appetite which Ororo had searched for, but this time, he didn't manage to eat his portion.

“You said you hated your dad,” Ororo said, scraping the sugar-bowl into the cup. She liked coffee sweet like at home, but here everyone drunk sugar-free, but – thanks Goddess – milk free, too.

“I do,” Warren confessed sulky, mashing the omelet with a fork. His regrown hair fell on his face and shoulders, still, Warren wasn't going to ask the monitors to help him out with a haircut as he wasn't allowed to leave the school. Ororo found Warren's hair pretty, but they drove Warren wild so he didn't take care of them much. The hair didn't care either, falling down with golden curls unlike Ororo's hair in case she would stop brushing and washing them. 

In Cairo, it was all easier. Ororo made a boy-like haircut and was satisfied with it. Perverts didn't stick to her less, but at least they didn't look at her like at dirt under their feet. They even had time to ask themselves if she was a girl or a boy. When Ororo got used to school, she looked at the other girls and suddenly wanted to be beautiful – for herself. Her reflection in the mirror was still okay, it had always been that way, but here they wore different haircuts, so Ororo decided to grow her hair a bit – just a bit. For herself. And for Warren to be mad about how stunning she could be. 

But Warren once again was mad for another reason. Ororo though life was a bitch, but she was lucky not to have parents, than to have the ones like Warren's: you thought of them and you got sick.

”Tell Xavier you don't want to see him,” Ororo suggested, looking at the big plastic earrings of a girl who had put two cheesecakes on her tray at once. That tailed guy named Kurt appeared at her side with a flop what made two eight years old jump, and one – disappear. The girl jumped, too, nearly dropping her cheesecakes, and then burst out laughing. Her laugh embarrassed Kurt so much he tried to grab her shaking tray nearly dropping the cheesecakes once again. 

“Mind your own business,” Warren snapped, clicking his fingernail on the cup, and Ororo pinched his arm. “Talk to Xavier like that,” Ororo warned him, “Don't talk like that to me. You are so brave with the ones who care, but with the ones who don't you keep you pie hole shut and eyes open.”

”You care no more than the others,” Warren's eyes darkened. “You don't know me. You have no right to tell me what to do.” There was something from En Sabah left in them both: when Warren got mad, his eyes darkened, dangerous yellow shimmering appearing inside of them. Normally, Ororo didn't mess up with Warren, but this time, she had run out of patience. 

“I know that you snort like a sawmill and pick your nose when you think that there's nobody looking,” Ororo pshawed. “You know what? I'm sick with your snivel under the desk. Get a napkin, you scruff!”

”You've seen napkins for the first time in your life in that fucking school,” Warren wound up, and Ororo felt like being hit with a hot wave. She raised from the table slowly, her hair standing on end because of the static electricity. The thunder rumbled outdoors because it rumbled in Ororo's head. In her head, bolts of lightning blew up and leaden clouds collided, when she realized she was soaring in the air her feet centimeters above the floor. It took more the time to realize it wasn't raining outdoors – it was raining in the dining hall.

Of course, monitors and teachers hurried up to her. They put Ororo back to the ground, they took her a seat, they comforted her and gave her a glass of water. They asked what had happened, but Ororo was silent as a grave. Her problems were only her problems – today and always. She could quarrel with Warren, even break up with him, but she would never complain or make stories about it.

After the breakfast, Ororo went to the girls' dormitory, saying she had got a headache. It was still raining outside as Ororo was still sad. Digging her face in the pillow, smelling with tasty washing powder, Ororo moved her toes and asked herself if she wanted to cry while nobody was looking. She didn't want to. She was brave, she was strong, she was so iron that nearly steel – an Apocalypse Horsewoman. She could cope with any shit including this.

While Ororo was thinking, she heard an indecisive creak of the dormitory's door, as though there was somebody behind it who firstly slammed it wide open, and then stuck in the doorway, not coming in and not going away. Ororo didn't even move, she didn't care who was it. The trickles of rain run down the window, the drops drummed on the windowsill and the streams hammered in the drain. Ororo couldn't stop the rain, but at least she managed to convince herself not to make a storm of the century. Teachers said it was alright, too. 

The creak repeated – the door must have been closed. Whoever opened it, he looked at Ororo and decided to leave her alone. A wise decision, Ororo thought in En Sabah's voice and snorted. She wanted to sleep and she didn't want to, she was hungry and she wasn't – she wanted something but it truth she didn't. Only when Ororo heard spasmodic, limping steps and the rustle of the feathers, she knew for sure what did she want – she wanted to kill. 

A bed opposite to her squeaked, added with a distinct sound of a sneaker, sliding on the floor. Warren sat opposite to Ororo, outstretching his broken leg – the one with rods inside, which was so hard to bend. Warren crackled his fingers, moved his wings, and stared at Ororo in the way she felt even with her nape. 

“Go away”, Ororo said, pulling her knees to her belly. “It's a girls' dormitory. If you don't go I'll yell that you are harassing me and you'll get kicked out of here. Maybe you'll get kicked out of school, too.”

That was an empty threat. Warren knew Ororo would rather fight him than to call for teachers, but it passed for an offense well. Warren didn't try to get into Ororo's pants much though she knew he wanted to. But he wouldn't make a pass at her if he knew she didn't want to: the suggestion should make him angry – as it did.

“I don't give a damn about the school,” Warren barked.

“Yeah, yeah. It's far better to live in a cage,” Ororo said poisonously and froze, waiting for a rudeness in response. Warren didn't answer. He sighed.

“Hey, look,” Warren started, crackling his fingers. Ororo hated the sound.

“Hey, look,” Ororo mocked him, and Warren raised his voice, “Enough!”

Ororo didn't answer. Now her belly was aching, too. She expected her period to start on the weekend, the period was late, but the aching came right on time. It started as on schedule: heaviness in the abdomen, indigestion, and nasty feeling there was a brick stuck into you. Gosh, Warren chose just the time to talk.

”I didn't mean to hurt you,” Warren said, and Ororo felt his hand on her shoulder. A light, warm hand. Professor Mccoy told, it was because of the wings. Warren looked massive, and when he hit in his full force, there was no difference, but in truth, his bones were light and hollow like birds' ones. That's why it was so hard to put them together after the fall, most of them appeared to be smashed. If not the healing factor and operations in the underground school lab, Warren wouldn't survive. 

“But you hurt me. If they didn't make such a fuss about it, I would hit you with 220 volts. It would make you regret your words,” Ororo grumbled. “You think you are the one to hit the ceiling. I can do it too. I can hit a ceiling so hard I'll break it. You won't like it. Nobody will.”

“I know,” Warren agreed. “I know how you went on Sabah.”

“How do you know? You weren't there.”

“I heard them talking,” Warren squeezed Ororo's shoulder. “I like you much, see? Very much. You can kick me out of feathers. I always wanted to find such a girl.”

“Normal guys are afraid of it,” Ororo said, putting her face out of the pillow. She saw a smudged reflection of two big white wings in the window. They looked whole there. “You are not very normal, aren't you?”

“You too,” Warren objected.”That's why we are here. Look, I hate my father. But I want to see him. I, not Xavier.”

”Go and see him,” Ororo growled out. Warren removed his hand from her shoulder and got up from the bed. His getting up took more time than sitting down as he had to grab the sidewall and the nightstand to stand on his feet. His wings scratched the walls, and his feet – the floor, but Ororo didn;t sympathized him. He suffered because he used his wings instead of his head, and paid for it.

“I didn't mean to hurt you,” Warren said, limping towards the door. “I'm a fuckboy I guess.”

“That's how you apologize?” Ororo abutted her elbows into the pillow and raised her head. Warren's face was totally worth it. The moment she looked at him, he made the nastiest grimace Ororo had ever seen, and claimed, standing in the doorway, “I don't apologize. I am the Archangel, and I need no forgiveness.”

”You are a fuckboy,” Ororo cried and threw the pillow at him, but Warren had already slammed the door shut. At the moment, the lightning hit the windowsill, melting it. Metal flew downstairs, the floor below Ororo heard screams and the sounds of explosion – the flame burst out, searing an ash-tree. 

It was like somebody downstairs was frightened much more than Ororo when she realized she had just ruined the wall of the house wich repair she wouldn't pay off even in two lives.


	2. Chapter 2

Warren's father, Warren Worthington II, was a heavy-set, well-dressed man, who waddled like a duck. No matter how long Ororo examined him, she couldn't understand who did that man looking like a European sex-tourist occasionally deciding to put the arrow pants and shiny shoes, a shirt with old-fashioned cufflinks and a silk tie, could give birth to someone like Angel. 

Warren's traits seemed to be cast in bronze like king's profile on a coin. Ororo knew Warren for nearly a year, still, she couldn't help admiring the voluptuous shape of his eyes, neat little crook in the middle of his nose and lush, stubborn mouth. Warren's father wasn't too much of a casted bronze: his pancake-like face melted like hot wax when he started talking. Warren Sr.'s cheeks jiggled, rump under his chin twitched and jerked, and the wrinkles traveled through his face like hieroglyph – through the ceiling of En Sabah's temple.

Warren Worthington II entered the school confidently through the main entrance, shook Xavier's hand – not without a little apprehension, thought Ororo who was pretending she was writing an essay in the smaller hall, having dragged her armchair so close to the arch into the lobby as she could. Warren Worthington II exchanged formal bows with Mystique, maintaining noticeable distance, said something to professor McCoy who came in his human body. Having finished, Warren turned to Xavier once again. It looked like he delayed the moment he would have to look at pale, but resolute Warren Worthington III – Angel, who was standing under the clock.

When Warren Worthington II finally caught up on his amply expressions of gratitude to Xavier and approached Warren Jr., Ororo had nearly fallen from the armchair trying to understand what was going on. Warren Sr. stood back to Ororo so she saw and heard nothing of what he said, except Warren's face – her Warren's face – when it was his turn to answer, became nasty as always when he talked back. 

There was no quarrel yet – Xavier interfered and invited father and son into the main hall, but didn't follow them. Having closed the doors, Xavier left along with Mystique, who sternly crossed her hands behind her back. Professor McCoy touched the earpiece of his glasses and looked at the clock for some time, as though trying to understand what he was missing; soon he was gone, too.

Ororo sat quietly, thumbing through the thick, half-empty notebook she never really wrote into that lied at her knees. Ororo was lucky Xavier didn't make her pay for the windowsill – he decided it was a spontaneous emotional outburst Ororo wasn't responsible for and asked Ororo to came into his room to talk about it. Ororo left Xavier with the feeling he had learned about her, Warren and the latest events far more than she said. This once again proved Ororo right that she'd better sit quietly and be a good girl, not doing anything that could draw Xavier's attention. 

Solid Grandfather clock between the cabinets tick-tocked, the sound echoed with the wall clock in the lobby. Tick-tock, tick-tock the pendulum swings while inside the case, under the glass, something went clink-clonck. The clock clinked so loud Ororo felt like she didn't hear what Warren and his father were talking about in the main hall because of this thunderous tick-tock instead of oak doors, carpets, and thick brick walls, absorbing any sounds like sponges. However, you couldn't learn much while sitting in the chair, so Ororo put her pen between the notebook pages, stuck the notebook into the pillows, getting up from the armchair, and went into the lobby quietly.

Ororo approached the passageway branches at the end of the lobby and looked right, then looked right. As far as Ororo remembered, the classes for the first-graders must have been just started this floor, so everyone at the floor was too busy to take the wind out of Ororo's sails. Ororo approached the main hall doors and pressed her ear to it, straining her hearing. She heard a distant muttering beyond, interrupted with a rare staccato of words, “Son, I still can help you out... like the normal people do... don't you want?”, but she didn't hear everything.

Ororo moved her ear to the keyhole right on time to hear Warren shouting at his father, “Fuck you!”, and the sound of steps, heading to the door. Ororo had had barely jumped away when the door slammed open, rumbling, and hit the wall with the handle, leaving a dent into it. Warren set out the hall, tore the collar of his polo shirt so the buttons scattered around, and spread his scarcely feathered wings, as though going to fly away. He saw Ororo rebounding, he must have understood she was eavesdropping, but he didn't look at her, he looked through her while the tears were streaming down his face.

Ororo didn't believe her own eyes, Warren looked like he was sobbing violently seconds ago, and he sobbed so desperately he couldn't stop crying yet. Ororo recoiled when Warren carried past her, limping fiercely, took hold of the staircase railing and began climbing up the second floor, helping himself with either the hands and the wings he abutted into the steps. The doors in the passageway started to open, and the heads of the pupils stuck out, interested with the sounds of the quarrel even the thick walls could not restrain. There were too many rumors about the former Horsemen, Ororo didn't want to add a few more, so she went down the passage, closing the doors and keeping on saying that nothing was going ones, so the ones who disagreed had good chances to get hit by a lightning. 

It was a piece of cake to cope with the small fries, but it was still up to Ororo what to do with Warren's father who flew out the main hall opened doors like a puzzled cloud and was watching the top of the staircase Warren's wings came and gone moments ago. Whatever Warren Sr. said, it made her Warren cry, and he didn't cry even when they took the pieces of the fitting out of his leg with no anesthesia because there was no anesthesia at the Cairo ruins – Warren just swore like hell, yelled and demanded more vodka. Warren lived in an underground fight club where he got beaten, cut, burnt, broken and he didn't cry – he seared his scars, straightened his bones, drink painkillers dissolved in the alcohol and went fighting again and again. What in the world could make Angel cry like that?

For the better or not, the meeting was over, so Ororo had to call to Xavier. Ororo lingered: she didn't want the professor to know everything that was going on at the school, especially If it concerned her or Warren. On the other hand, Ororo wasn't sure the professor wasn't reading her mind at that very moment – those telepathists could drive you crazy and leave you wearing tin foil hats to the rest of your life. Meanwhile, Warren's father found himself in a company and started to offhandedly examine Ororo.

“Are you a mutant?” Warren Sr. asked. He talked like he was in charge of asking questions and expect proper answers. “Do you like the school? Do you find this education acceptable for the ones like you?”

«Yes, I am. Warren is a mutant, too. There are a lot of fucking mutants here,” Ororo said, folding her hands. She felt like she started to understand why Warren went pale every time he heard his father's name. It darkened behind the windows, though the evening was still far away. The thunder pile blasted right above the rooftop, though there was no fear in Warren's Sr. eyes when he looked at Ororo – only the persistent, bare-knuckle curiosity.

Warren Worthington II left. Ororo heard vaguely that Xavier confessed it was possibly not the best his idea considering all that Warren Jr. had been through. Bullshit, Ororo snorted, the problem was not in what her Warren had been through, the problem was his father appeared to be an asshole. Her opinion, even being said aloud, changed nothing: Warren didn't come for the supper. Ororo didn't wait for him either, she just noticed for herself she saw no wings soaring over the line. Everything in the dining hall was as usual, except Warren who would run into a brawl the moment Summers started his old tricks again.

Scott Summers whom Ororo fought while being a Horsewoman, let Gin Gray with an open book at her tray to take a place before him in the line. He also passed forward Gin's friend Jubilee, the one with the plastic earrings. They pulled Kurt out the tail of the line and put him right after Scott by saying he was always standing there – he was just late after the laboratory test like it was such a big deal. There were brownies for the dessert so even some of the teachers came down, so Scott was being extremely brassy. For Warren, it was like a red rag to the bull, and Ororo understood him – she understood Scott as well.

Ororo would do the same if she had friends – she would share her turns in the line, carried goodies for them and didn't care for anyone who wasn't her or her band. But Ororo didn't have friends at the school. She was seventeen and she attended eight years old classes because she had never gone to school before and learned to read the street signs, to count while pickpocketing cash, and languages she learned while selling souvenirs to the tourists. Ororo knew how to survive in the streets, but to become an “a successful educated young woman”, as Xavier said, she needed to know everything the teens of her age knew.

It was one thing to know, Ororo could do it, and the other – to make friends. Between Ororo, Gin and Scott lied an abyss of books Ororo never read, movies she never watched and bands she never heard of. But it wasn't only this. Maybe they would accept her, Gin didn't give a damn who you were and where you were from, she was stupid but kind and if Ororo didn't see, how powerful she could be, she would never take Gin seriously – but Scott had a memory for the stuff. He didn't forget whom Ororo and Warren were for En Sabah. He didn't forget and didn't let the others forget it.

Next day Warren came up neither for the breakfast nor for the additional classes he attended along with Ororo just to make a company. Ororo had to do her French Grammar exercises alone at the break. It was Warren who helped her out: maybe he posed a rebel, but he told Ororo that teachers came to him and taught him everything, him alone. He knew Math, Literature, different Languages, he had a perfect handwriting and never made mistakes in his essays. Except the study was like a bone in Warren's throat: father didn't let him out to play outdoors, and Warren wanted it so much even though being ashamed of the wings: he even tried to cut them off when he was ten. Once Ororo got under Warren's shirt and found the scars – there were them, deep indentations under the wing base, they looked like the skin was damaged with rather a blunt knife. 

Ororo went down for dinner having passed her Math test surprisingly well, though she had forgotten about the Literature essay so her score was lowered. She didn't enter the dining hall at once, this time, she waited at the palm trees in the pots, pretending to search for something in her notebook. She saw plenty of pupils of all grades entering, it was still no Warren among them. It wasn't like Ororo really cared for there sobbing Warren hid, but she had never seen him crying before. Warren wasn't a crybaby type, that's all, and he wasn't a sensitive type either.

Something had happened, and the worst thing was that Xavier had already known about it. Xavier just couldn't let the things happened on their own. He would decide Warren needed help, and convinced Ororo she should talk with him. It would be better to get ahead Xavier when waiting for him to point out what to do, no, Ororo explained to herself, climbing up the staircase to the second floor. Another staircase, and another one, taking a turn to the right through the passage with vases under the glasses, walls covered with the portraits of the strangers in old-fashioned clothes, between the lamps with colorful shades on lacquered bureaus, another turn after the library – so, here it is, the staircase to the ceiling.

Ororo remembered the way, but she didn't need to. It was roaring behind the ceiling door, the sound made the walls shaking. Warren adored Metallica, he knew all the lyrics by heart – he learned them when playing the tapes back and forth on the Berlin ceiling. Yet no matter how much Warren loved Metallica, he never listened to it when he felt good – only when feeling bad. Ororo asked him why, and Warren said when you were turning inside out only the music hammering into your head with the voices screaming from the same pain you did, could put you on the course, to keep you together like adhesive tape kept the bumper of a cheap car.

Ororo said it was weird. She was caressing the panel of Warren's tape recorder, Warren didn't tell her where he got one, and Ororo didn't ask, everyone had a right to keep mum about how and where he took his favorite stuff. She thought it was weird, but it made sense, and Warren said it wasn't weird at all. He asked Ororo if she ever felt she was dying, but knew she couldn't die – she couldn't die at least because of the anger at the people, at life, at herself. Millions of times, Ororo answered, her chin up. So Warren put his hand on her hand and pressed her finger on the button of the recorder.

He not only got her listening to his music, she showed what it meant to him. Ororo told him nothing, but she valued it. And remembered.

Ororo went up the stairs to the very door, leaning under the low ceiling, and knocked. The music didn't become quieter and nothing had happened – Warren must haven't heard her. Ororo knocked louder, with her fist and with her palm. This time, Warren reacted – the music became quieter, but that was all. Resting against the door, Ororo stood at the steps for some time, asking herself what to do next. On the one hand, she was angry with Warren for keeping her outside, but on the other, she understood that if something that made her cry in public happened, she wouldn't open the door now matter how one would knock.


	3. Chapter 3

Of course, Warren didn't come for the dinner. Ororo knew he would decide to stay in his room until he died (or until he felt better), so she had a backup plan. She got to the beginning of the line and started to fill her pockets with Twinkies. 

There was no Scott around, so there was no one to call to order. There was only Jubilee, and she looked like waiting for someone – she looked around impatiently, but the one she was waiting for hadn't come yet. Or hadn't teleported yet.

“If eating so much sugar,” said Jubilee, looking at Ororo shoveling Twinkies from the tray, “one is getting covered with acnes soon enough.”

“If not minding one's own business,” Ororo said, not looking at Jubilee. Twinkie's pack was torn, the cream popped out. The rest of them was crumpled, and Ororo ran her hand deep into the pile, groping for an intact Twinkie, “one get covered with bruises.” 

“You are so angry,” Jubilee rested her arms against the tray and leaned over the table, looking at the sandwiches. Her plastic earrings were swinging, turning at Ororo with their bright and dull sides at a time. “This way you'll never make friends.”

“I,” Ororo narrowed her eyes. It was easy for her to look intimidating, she was taller than Jubilee and looked older than her. She looked older than Warren, too, maybe it was because of the eyes – McCoy once told Ororo had a mature look, “had friends.”

“Where are they now?” Jubilee didn't bully Ororo, but she wasn't going to leave her alone, too.

“And where is your blue boyfriend?” Ororo sneered. She nicked it – Jubilee turned away, pretending she really needed to choose the most low-fat yogurt from the tray of low-fat yogurts. 

Ororo didn't come to Warren right away, she waited for the monitors to turn the lights out, the school preparing to sleep. Only teachers on duty check the passages in the night, but normally them drank coffee in the kitchen or at one of the lower living rooms, or simply was having naps. Ororo knew it, so she didn't hurry and wasn't nervous. If being caught, Ororo was going to tell she came to change a pad – her period hadn't started yet, but she already had pains, so it might have started any moment. Her pockets were, by the way, full of Twinkies because girls always had a sucker for sweets at those days. 

Electric lamps, bringing to mind gas ones, poorly lit the passages. The carpet muffled the sound of the steps, but still Ororo took off her slippers and shoved them behind the belt of her pink Bugs Bunny pajama pants. The pants looked childish, yet Ororo liked them much, once upon a time when Ororo was called Oriko, and she had a home and everything, she had pants like these ones. Ororo barely remembered the faces of her parents, nevertheless, the pants got stuck in her mind.

Just one staircase, two turns, and here ran steps to the attic. Ororo get to the attic door, feeling the firmness of the wood with her bare feet and a thin layer of dust, here and there smeared with Warren's footprints – no matter how fiercely he locked himself up, he had to go to the toilet. At the door Ororo kept her ears open, the music wasn't on. Warren was either sleeping or lying and spitting into the ceiling. In any way, he wouldn't have his arms or legs falling off if getting up and opening the door for Ororo. 

Ororo knocked with her knuckles – one time, two times, three times. The conventional signal was just like in her latest shelter, she taught Warren to it. In the room behind the door, silence remained, just like the lack of any movement. Ororo knocked once again and banged her hand on the door.

“Open up,” she said. “The checkup will begin soon.”

“Go away then,” Warren answered. His voice sounded close enough, as though he was right behind the door. Where he was lying, on the bed or on the floor? 

“You can't talk to a girl like that, asshole,” Ororo banged on the door again. “Open up, or I am telling that you are going to commit suicide, and they will knock it out.” 

“Yeah? You don't have the guts.” 

“I have the guts to knock it out by myself,” Ororo snapped. She felt the fever rising from the chest, covering her head with a thick cloud. The desert breathed out into her face, Ororo felt the stench of downtrodden camels and spilled gasoline. Outer sides of her arms sweated, the door palpably heated up.

“So knock it,” Warren answered indifferently. Ororo heard a sound of something hitting the floor. Warren's hand or leg?

“Are you drunk?” Ororo leaned on the door. Her thoughts were confused, she saw plants in pots at the toilet door down the passage wilted. Ororo needed to calm down and stop losing her temper, or some of the duty teachers would feel it and come to sort the things out. 

“If only I could,” Warren laughed bitterly. “I can't, I have nothing. Bitches took away everything.”

“Open this fucking door,” Ororo yawned. ”I am sleepy.” 

“Go the fuck away and sleep.”

“I want to sleep with you,” Ororo answered, and only when answering understood what she had said. They didn't even... Just kissed and cuddled a bit – a very little bit. Warren was all broken, it was scary even to touch him no matter how strange it all went. Warren all lighted up from the smoochy job, and Ororo too, but when it all came down to the business, Warren backed off and Ororo felt silly – she wasn't going to rape him in the end.

Warren was unbelievable handsome. Ororo wanted to take his shirt off, lie with him, kiss him, but she didn't want him to think she wanted to do it at his first demand just because she lived in the streets. Warren should have to persuade Ororo, and he was like yes and no at the same time – Ororo knew he wanted it, she felt it with her hip pressed in between his legs, but he was in no rush about Ororo. Did he try to fill the rates or just accustomed for the girls throwing themselves on him at a glance?

Ororo closed her eyes and put her hand into the pocket, taking a Twinkie out. She unpacked it up with her teeth and nails and started to eat. Twinkie was tasty, nevertheless, it felt like wadding in Ororo's mouth and down the throat. The covering rustled tremendously, that's why Ororo didn't hear Warren coming to the door and opening it. Ororo fell on her back, right on Warren's leg with rods inside. Warren howled with pain, biting his fist, to mute the scream.

“Are you alive?” Ororo rolled on the floor and got up back to her feet. Warren pressed his back into the doorjamb, biting his fist violently. His eyes were glassy, and the veins on his hand swelled, pulsing.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” Ororo kissed Warren's hand, and forehead, taking his hand away from the mouth she kissed the traces of his teeth, crimson red under the torn skin. Warren stepped at his injured leg carefully, sullenly watching Ororo caressing it.

Ororo always felt confused when Warren looked at her like this. For her, it was even easier when they hassled, quarreled, sometimes fought – she knew what to do, she could put him in his place easily. Only when Warren looked at Ororo with his big beautiful blue eyes Ororo wanted to turn away pressing her hands to the face like a village girl at a sight of the groom.

“It's okay,” Warren outstretched to Ororo. Ororo pretended she didn't notice, walking the room, her hands in the pockets. Having found swishy coverings, Ororo didn't understand what were them. In a minute or two, she remembered she was going to lure Warren out with a Twinkie. 

”Here, take it,” Ororo pulled out a Twinkie and gave it to Warren without looking. Warren took her hand and didn't take Twinkie. 

“Do you want to sleep with me?” Warren asked. Ororo tried to look into his eyes as hard as she could, no lower, where his sweatpants were filled with passionate consent. Warren must have understood what Ororo avoided to look at, so he came closer leaving so little space to stare.

“Actually I was going to ask what did your father tell you,” Ororo put her hand on Warren's shoulder. Warren looked at the hand first, and only when at Ororo. 

“He told me nothing,” mumbled Warren, cuddling up to Ororo and kissing her in her half-open mouth. “Fuck him. I need nobody.”

Ororo used to never understand how couples could smooch for hours, forgetting the world. How long one could kiss – five minutes, an hour? It was simply boring, and you got your lips puffed up in the end. Yet with Warren Ororo kissed in that very way, for hours, embosoming and clasping, bumping teeth on teeth, giggling and kissing again. It was a game, a silent romping in a hidden place, a wordless conversation of arms and lips – Ororo could talk like that for the rest of her life. 

“What about me?” Ororo slurped, as Warren stuck his tongue into her mouth. Ororo French kissed, and it was a craft, though with Warren it was no craft at all: his tongue twitched in disorder, tickling Ororo's tongue and lips. Ororo slightly bit it from time to time, just because it was funny.

“About you,” Warren said, pushing Ororo to the bed. Ororo wasn't going to do anyone this night, she had no rubbers. She giddily decided, they could do without sticking anything in – why one would need his hands and mouth for? 

Ororo felt her calf pressed to the wood and fell on the bed. Warren had almost removed the rope, there were only T-shirt and pants left. Ororo put the T-shirt off over her head, quickly pulling her pants down, throwing them aside. She looked at Warren, who stuck in his pants, having difficulty with taking them off with an inflexible leg. Ororo sat back and pulled his pants down, Warren's dick popped out and leaped. Warren squawked.

“Does it hurt?” Ororo put hands at Warren's hips, lifting her head up. Warren, breathing with his mouth open, run fingers on Ororo's cheek. “Sensitive.”

His dick was just like Ororo imagined it – slightly curved, sent up, rather thick but not that long, covered with thin straw hair at the root. Ororo's mouth filled with slabber when seeing it: it must have been tastier than an ice-cream. Ororo imposed herself on it with her mouth, grabbing Warren's butt.

Warren breathed hastily, taking hold of Ororo's nape. Warren's testicles were tight like tennis balls, he moaned, dragging on after Ororo with his hips, and Ororo tucked her lips up, thinking about Warren licking her up when something had changed. Warren told something, pulling Ororo's hair, she thought with passion, but his dick softened, testicles got flabby and Warren himself was not okay – he twitched and jerked, and pushed Ororo away not because he liked it.

“What's wrong?” Ororo asked, letting Warren go. Warren pressed his hand to his mouth and rushed away as he was, with pants at the knees. Warren hit his wholesome leg at the bedside table, fell on the floor and vomited.

 

Ororo didn't believe her eyes twice a week. Warren threw up with bile, he coughed, spat and screwed up his watery eyes. Warren didn't eat, he had nothing to vomit, still, his stomach kept on wringing out the emptiness. It went for two-three minutes, or for the whole ten, Ororo didn't know. While blowjob Ororo got wet and stuck to the sheets. Throwing up Warren calmed her down, making Ororo sick and tired and dreaming about a shower.

Ororo wasn't going to wait when Warren stopped vomiting. She threw herself in the corner of the room, grabbed her pants and put it on. When Ororo reached for the T-shirt, Warren was trying to stand up, swinging his wings, though he only smeared his belch on the floor.

“Are you fucking insane?” Ororo shouted. “I'm doing a blowjob and you just throw up! I get your stinky dick into my mouth, it's me who must be throwing up, and you... You don't even want me! Why did you lie to me, why? If you are sick of women, why don't you find yourself a man and leave me alone!” 

Warren turned white. He managed to stand up only when he took the pants off. If not the bile, the stench, and the tears, burning in the eyes, Ororo would stare at Warren like a dog at a sugar bone – naked, with spread wings, Warren was like an antique statue from the class book. Wings overshadowed the light, making the room darkened – McCoy told to conduct wiring not so long after they learned the higher Warren is being over the ground, the faster he recover.

“I am not finding myself a man,” Warren stood between Ororo and the door. “You know, I've got a hard-on for you.”

“And what?” Ororo shouted out glaringly. “Like it helped.”

Shadows were swirling behind the window, the snow was falling. It was falling on the fresh cut lawns, on the thin ice, covered the surface of the pond, sticking around the oaks and ash trees, it wrapped them up in doughy cocoons. Ororo knew it by heart as though she was soaring behind the window with the snow, and whirled, and fell. The cold chained her heart, and while it lived there, there was winter in the school – winter in the middle of autumn. 

“I fucked for the money,” Warren told. Nodules on his jaw bulged out like he had beetles under his skin. “Before the club. I fucked for the money with those who wanted a freak with the wings. An angel.”

“What?”

Warren went gray from tension, he didn't look like joking. Ororo gazed at him with her T-shirt off, pressing the piece of cloth to her naked breasts.

“I fucked for the money,” Warren repeated, swallowing, “and after that I just can't. I can't do it.”

“You can't do what?” Ororo asked, blunt from the stress.  
“I can't do anything!” Warren yelled. His wings cocked up, striking the lamp. Lamp hit the ceiling, swinging on the wire wildly. The shadows ran on the floor, looking like a pack of frantically aping imps.


End file.
